


Ravaged

by lykxxn



Series: Poetry [6]
Category: Wonder Woman (2017)
Genre: Abuse, Ambiguous Slash, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Gen, Manipulation, Poetry, Rape, kind of an epic poem?, may write a wonderpoison follow-up?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-23
Updated: 2017-06-23
Packaged: 2018-11-18 02:34:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11281959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lykxxn/pseuds/lykxxn
Summary: The war had raped her in places it had not dared to put hands on the men.





	Ravaged

She was a monster and she

knew, she knew the evil—

evil evil evil— that consumed her veins

and ate away at her blood, her skin, her

emotions and her love and hope and trust.

 

She dropped out of life, destroyed her mask.

New face, new job, new name and nobody knew

just who she was and who she had been,

once upon a time.

 

Dr Poison died and died and died

until Isabel was sure she was dead

and the poisons put themselves away,

invisible.

 

She sold medication to the ill and wounded,

to the war-ravaged minds that meandered back

to their war-ravaged trenches and the places

where all their horrors were born from ashes,

screaming, screeching, searching for release.

 

And Isabel,

Isabel was thriving as she should, sober

but somewhere she was sullen, scared;

the war had raped her in places it had not

dared to put hands on the men.

 

The war looked like Ludendorff’s face,

looked like his fingers, touching, pulling,

pretending to be gentle but killing

in every touch.

Oh, how she despised it.

 

It ripped, burned, destroyed

every inch of her humanity, her goodness

and it corrupted her—

for the greater good, it said. For the greater good—

but it lied, lied, lied and carried on

ravaging her innocence, her love, her soul.

 

And it sold her to the highest bidder,

and it poisoned her, so she poisoned

them and pretended nothing hurt.

She pretended like her life depended on it

 

and Ludendorff’s eyes burned as he stared,

squared her up, sought her out for fun,

made her know just whose she was,

just who owned her and just who would win:

the chessmaster crushed the pawn in his hands.

 

He liked her, he said, again, again, again

until she truly believed it.

She could never tell the difference between love and

heartless manipulation.

 

She could’ve been someone, could’ve been loved

if not for him, saying I love you, fingering

the mask, fingering her and laughing when she

took it without a word. Took it like a man.

 

I thought he loved me, she said, sighed, decided

it was better not to think about it, could not control

her ravaged mind and ravaged body, decided to lose

and let Ludendorff take the reins instead.

 

She is slipping and she remembers, remembers

the way he used to smile, the way a forked tongue

would hiss with lust, love her, love her until he

was old and tired and had looked at her

maimed, ugly face far too long

 

and her blood mixed with the old man’s cum

and it made her vomit, knowing the bastard

was getting off on her pain, her torture, her fear

that saying no would make it hurt more, make him

use her every minute until he’d finally had his fill.

 

The Wonder Woman made her rounds in the paper,

flying here, zipping there. She had tabs on Isabel;

the shield and the lasso lit up Dresden every month

and every month, Isabel hid.

 

Hid herself away in the cupboard with Death

and the ghosts of decapitated, destroyed souls

until she was discovered, illuminated by whatever

goodness Diana held inside her.

 

She won’t let Isabel go, not now she knows how

the general was not a general but a devil from Hell,

taking and taking and taking from Isabel

until nothing became of her but apathy

and an empty, empty heart.

 

Isabel's room is not Isabel's room but a bedroom

intended for Guests Only. She tastes the words

and tastes blood, and knows. She has never been

wanted, and here, with Diana, is no different.

 

She dreams, and dreams, and he comes for her

and makes her bleed, owns her

the way you’d own a dog, makes her feel so weak

not even Diana can convince her she’s strong.

 

The wireless in the living room sings that _it’s a_

 _long way to Tipperary, it’s a long way to go_ and Isabel

watches Diana from the foot of the stairs, watches her

become a hummingbird, flitting about,

glistening in the sunlight.

 

Ich bin gemein, she tells herself, not because

she wants to, but because it’s true. And

for the better half of a year she believes it.

But she doesn’t want to hurt anyone,

 

not anymore, because she knows what hurt

and torture and what a slow death without

ever delivering a fatal blow feels like.

She knows what it feels like, closing her eyes

 

and seeing him, feeling him reaching over

touching her breasts when nobody’s watching,

remembering his gnarled fingers rubbing

her cunt, owning her, using her for his own pleasure.

 

And she hates him for it.


End file.
